


How To Date Your Flatmate

by EchoSilverWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcoholic Harry Watson, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But he is a little slow to catch on, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Garridebs moment, He is better at this than he thinks, Idiots in Love, John has nightmares, John is a Good Friend, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Smut, Relationship Lessons, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, So is Sherlock, Sort Of, a tiny bit of angst, just mentioned, not a major plot point, so does john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf
Summary: When Sherlock realizes his feelings for John have developed into something more than platonic, he decides to conduct a little experiment to test the waters. Turns out he isn't as clueless about emotions and affection as he once thought, and ends up teaching John a thing or two in the process.





	1. The Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/gifts).



> This story is gifted to my Beta, my best friend, who has been in love with it from the get go. 
> 
>  
> 
> *Not a WIP. Completed work. Will be posted chapter by chapter*

Sherlock watches John from behind his microscope as his flatmate types up their latest case. He knows it's a bit not good to stare, so he attempts to hide it behind the pretense of working. 

He realized quite a while ago how his feelings toward his best friend had changed, had morphed into something more than platonic. How the slow click-clicking of his two fingered typing that was once so annoying has now become quite endearing. The way he wishes he could brush back the silver blonde strands falling across John's eye when he leans forward. Or to rest his head atop John's while reading whatever silly title he is typing up about their latest case. Wishing that he could capture that subconscious flick of tongue with his lips and draw it in against his own...

Of course John didn't know, couldn't know. It could ruin everything they had built together if not reciprocated. The only real friendship he has ever known. Not worth the risk of losing what he has for the chance at something more. 

Not to mention, John was always adamantly proclaiming he wasn't gay; he has shouted it out to anyone and everyone since they met. Though...there has always been something, something charged and intimate between them, on occasion. In moments where they held each other's gaze a beat too long, or in the slight brush of fingers passing a cup of tea. Small, quiet moments that always felt like more. 

John sets his laptop aside and stands up to stretch, and Sherlock quickly averts his eyes when he catches a flash of skin where John's striped jumper has creeped up in the back. Feeling his cheeks flush for watching - for wanting. Silently chastising himself as he fumbles for a new slide. 

If only he could find a way to test the waters without giving himself away. An experiment to gauge John's level of interest and comfort in something more than a close friendship. 

Yes. That just might work. John was always trying to help him understand social niceties and human nature. If he could be convinced to teach him how to show affection, about physical contact in a relationship, he could easily read the effect the “lessons” had on his friend, under the guise of his own lack of experience in such areas. 

He swaps the slides again and smiles to himself as John wanders into the kitchen to start some tea. This could work. A ‘Schrodinger’s cat’ type experiment, in which the possibility of reciprocated feelings both exist and do not exist until he has the nerve to open the proverbial box to find out. 

Yes. This definitely could work if done right. Then at least he would know where he stands, without having to expose his own feelings first - or at all.


	2. The Proposition

“So let me make sure I've heard you right,” John starts, a bemused look on his face. “You want ME to teach you how to be in a relationship? In a  _ romantic _ relationship?”

“Yes.”

“You...but you...you don't do...you...married to your work…” John stammers.

“Obviously I've changed my mind on such matters.”

“But...who?”

“Unimportant at the present, John. Will you help me or not?”

“I...I can try, I suppose, but why can't you just, you know, practice on the other person?”

“John,” Sherlock implores, allowing a hint of embarrassment to enter his voice, “you know I am...inexperienced...not good with human nature or the feelings of others...”

“Understatement of the year, that,” John snorts.

“No need to be cruel, John, I am being quite serious. I wish to learn how to properly... _show affection_ to a potential partner.”

“Yeah, right...erm, sorry. ‘Course I'll try to help.”

“Perfect. We can start tonight. After dinner, if you're amenable?”

John can only nod.

“I called in our usual from that Thai place you like, John, if you'd be so kind as to pick it up?”

John barely gets out a rather unsure “ok” before Sherlock is up and out of the room. Leaving a bewildered John to wonder exactly what, besides picking up dinner, he had actually just agreed to do.

It's just helping a friend. That's all, right? Nothing weird in that. It's good. Good for Sherlock to explore this part of himself, this area of human interaction. Good that he possibly finds someone worth the effort. Good...but why then does he feel a twinge of jealousy over sharing his flatmate’s attentions? He shrugs off the feeling and grabs his coat on his way out the door. 


	3. Closing The Distance...or, Hand Holding

John is doing the washing up as Sherlock flops onto the sofa, then, thinking better of it, sits up and slightly to one side. Leaving space enough for John to join him, but not enough to not be in close proximity.

Experiment number one: innocent body contact.

John joins him a few minutes later, stopping in front of the sofa.

“Budge over a bit, eh? You're taking up part of my side!”

“Part of the lesson, John. Is it not expected, when with a potential date, to sit close together?”

John sighs. Having for a moment forgotten about his agreement to teach Sherlock the small intricacies of “dating”, he realizes this may be a bit more hands on than he expected. It's just Sherlock though. No reason to be embarrassed. Personal space was something he had had to abandon years ago with his flatmate.

Sitting down in the confined space between Sherlock and the arm of the sofa, he tries to get comfortable. They end up shoulder to shoulder, legs touching. It's a little awkward being so close, but nothing he can't handle. It's probably worse for Sherlock, who usually despises people touching him. He can do this. Coach his friend through how to do simple things like sitting close to someone.

Sherlock hands him the remote. “You may pick a programme for us to watch, John,” he says softly.

“Letting me choose? Wow you really are trying to behave aren't you? Very chivalrous of you, ta!”

John replies, flipping through to a rerun of Doctor Who, something he knows is slightly less annoying to Sherlock than some of his other shows. He tries to settle back into the sofa, leaning against Sherlock a bit more in the process.

Sherlock stiffens. Unsure now what to do. John is obviously not objecting to the closeness, and the warmth and feel of his smaller friend pressed into his side is...good. He can smell his aftershave and a hint of curry and earl grey. He can smell _John_ , and has to resist the urge to bury his nose into John's hair, into his jumper, into his neck.

John seems to notice him tensing.

“Hey, Sherlock? Just relax. You don't want the person you're with to think they make you uncomfortable.”

And John, always able to surprise him, takes it one step further than he expected. Reaches across his thigh to grasp his hand, smaller fingers entwining with his longer ones and resting them together in the space where their legs touch.

He feels John watching him for a moment, as his own eyes stay riveted to the place their hands now lay clasped together. Warmth radiating from the contact. John's hand fitted perfectly within his own.

Their eyes catch briefly as he looks up and John nods.

“See, this is easy. Just take their hand and try to enjoy the feel of their touch,” he says, before turning back to the telly.

“Usually people touching me is abhorrent...however, this is...acceptable.” he replies, his voice a bit softer than intended.

“Good,” John responds, giving his hand a small squeeze.

They sit in a comfortable silence until the credits roll. John watching the television and Sherlock trying-and failing- NOT to stare at their joined hands.


	4. Lesson number 2 (A lesson in reverse), or, Offering Comfort

He wasn't eavesdropping. Not at all. John had been on the phone a good while now and he had noticed the immediate change in demeanor. So he had stayed off by the window idly plucking at his violin while John continued the call in the kitchen. Voice raised but not yelling. Stiff back. Clenching fists. All signs that whatever it was was both upsetting and angering him.

It must be Harry...No. _About_ Harry.  It had to be. Something was wrong. John rarely got phone calls that lasted more than a few minutes, and he almost never left the room to speak.

Clara then. Obviously. No one else would call about Harry.

His throat tightens with an unexpected moment of empathy for John's older sibling. No one else would call - because no one else cared - and that is one feeling he knows too well.

He keeps his distance the duration of the call. Watching, but actively avoiding listening in. If John wants him to know, he will say, and if not he can easily work it out himself later.  

He looks away and pretends to be absorbed in his pizzicato as John ends the call. The sudden slam of a fist into the worktop actually makes him jump, his eyes darting back to the kitchen where John is standing with his back to the sitting room, head bent and shaking.

For a moment he thinks of retreating quietly to his room, to offer his friend a private space to vent his anger. Except...John's shaking. It's not anger, not completely.

He doesn't even realize he had decided to move until he is standing behind his shuddering flatmate. Doesn't think about what he's doing (and well, that IS a first) until his hand gently comes to rest on John's shoulder.

Unsure what the proper procedure is, he just helplessly asks, “Are you OK, John?”

John only shakes his head slightly; his words, when they come, are quiet and broken.

“Alcohol poisoning. Again. She’d been doing so well. Had a row with Clara, and Clara walked out. Came back later and found her unconscious. Pulled through, though she'll be in hospital....”

John's voice cracks and his fist hits the worktop again. Sherlock flinches but instead of letting go he cautiously steps closer, wrapping long arms awkwardly around John's middle and pulling their bodies together, back to chest. John stiffens briefly but then goes pliant, leaning back heavily into Sherlock, before turning, resting his head on his taller friend's chest, and bringing his own arms up to loosely wrap around his waist. The angle and the height difference are a bit uncomfortable, but Sherlock stays still - locked in an awkward embrace - because it seems to be what John needs.

They've never been this way. Neither had ever hugged the other. Not in such an intimate way. Not for more than a clap on the back. This is more. This is their normal roles reversed.  John at his weakest (and allowing himself to be seen and comforted) and Sherlock taking up the role of carer (and isn't that just a turn up?).

The warmth and solid weight of John pressed against himolike this has him awestruck. Heart hammering so nervously erratic he is sure John can feel it. As he knows he feels it when he lowers his chin onto grey blonde hair and rests there.

They stay that way for what feels like hours, but is possibly just a few minutes. No words, just the sound of tandem breathing as John calms in his arms.


	5. Lesson Number 3, or, How to Cuddle Your Flatmate

“Christ! Sherlock! Your bloody toes are freezing!” John exclaims as large feet press up against his arm.

“Clearly, John. And you are warm,” Sherlock quips, stretching his legs across John's lap and his feet up under John's arm.

John grunts and shoves them off.  

“You promised John,” he continues, pouting ,trying to sound as put out as possible.

“What are you on about”? John grumbles, while absently pulling Sherlock's cold extremities back onto his lap and rubbing at them.

“The lessons, John. You promised,” he whines again, this time eliciting a small half smile from John.

“Ah. Yes. Teaching you how to be an acceptable partner for some poor,  unsuspecting woman.”

Sherlock frowns.

“What...woman?” he asks.

“The one you are so intent on learning to impress,” John cringes internally (and what's that about)  but winks playfully.

“There is no woman, John. As usual you continue to see but not observe.”

“Then who are you…”

John is confused for several seconds before it dawns on him.

“Uh...yeah. Right. Girlfriends...not your area? Look, I am fine with that…and with...helping, but I have no experience in how to court or behave in a relationship with a man.”

“Don't be thick, John. The person's gender doesn't matter in the basic theory of how to show affection. From what I've observed all people seem to have the same needs in a relationship, regardless of their sex.”

John is quiet for a moment before cautiously asking for a verification of what he already knows.

“So...you...are in fact...gay?”

“Obviously.”

“Right, then,” John replies, just now realizing he has been absently rubbing Sherlock's feet this entire conversation.

He has no issue with anyone's preferences. It doesn’t change anything, doesn’t even make the fact that they are doing this any more insane than it already is. It was actually nice to finally have a verbal confirmation on what he already thought was true.

He feels a little out of his depth now, though, because really, he isn't sure his experience with women is transferable to dating a man. Though Sherlock is probably right. Some bits would surely be the same either way.  

“Lie the other way,” he suddenly instructs, and greyish green eyes look at him curiously before complying. Sherlock sits up and turns, laying back down so his head is resting on John's thigh and his feet are draped over the arm of the sofa, as John grabs the ratty afghan and spreads it over his friend.

“I fail to see what you are trying to accomplish...oooooh,” his voice trails off into a contented sigh as John lays one arm over his chest and the other hand begins to thread through his hair, just barely grazing his scalp.

“Cuddling, Sherlock. I imagine most anyone in a relationship enjoys being held and touched affectionately.

The only response is a quiet “Mmm” that sounds ridiculously close to a purr.

John laughs softly and continues to weave his fingers through dark curls, his other hand absently tracing circles over Sherlock's sleep shirt.

To be honest, he has always wondered what his hair felt like. Now he knows. Soft, even if a bit tangled. His fingers deftly comb through it as Sherlock's eyes flutter closed.  

Big, adorable git, he thinks. Even the great Sherlock Holmes isn't immune to someone stroking his hair.

A larger hand folds over his free one, interlacing their fingers. It surprises him for a second, but he doesn't pull away.

It's kind of nice, this, even if a bit weird being it’s his best mate he is snuggled up with. He hasn't had any quiet domestic moments like this in quite a while.

Sherlock shifts onto his side and a few minutes later he notices the hand holding his has gone slack and he can hear the soft even breathing and barely noticeable snores coming from his lap.

He leans back into the sofa, hand still gliding through silky strands. Sherlock so rarely sleeps. He smiles to himself, watching. The man's face is much more relaxed and young looking when he's like this. John can't help but tighten his own fingers around his friend's and pull him just a little closer as he closes his own eyes and just enjoys the feel of another person in his arms. Even if that person is his annoying, abrasive, mad, _beautiful_ (wait, what?) genius roommate.


	6. Lesson Number 4,or, An Accidental Study in Bedsharing

John stops short in the doorway and Sherlock, busy on his mobile, collides with his back, knocking him forward into the small room.    
  
"Sherlock? Did you happen to mention when you booked this place that there are two of us?"   
  
"Of course, John," he replies still not looking up. "I told them my partner and I needed accommodations for one to two nights."   
  
"Did you happen to mention we would need TWO beds?"   
  
Finally he glances up from his phone and his eyes go wide as he takes in the small hotel room.    
  
"You DO see now what the phrase 'my partner and I' implies, yeah?"   
John goes on, annoyance in his voice, and Sherlock freezes for a moment before stuttering out, "O-ohhh. Th...there's just the one..."   
  
"Brilliant deduction,” John retorts, but there is no real anger behind it; and then he does something that Sherlock doesn't expect - he laughs. 

He cringes internally, assuming it's angry laughter, until John turns to face him.  He catches his eye and John doubles over, laughing so hard he wheezes.

He stands there, still silently staring, until John gathers himself together enough to sputter out, “God, your face! Sherlock, it's fine. It's all fine”

Sherlock can feel the heat creep into  his cheeks as he mumbles to the carpet.

“I...don't sleep much anyways, I...the chair is fine...you can…”

John takes a deep breath, then giggles again, before collecting himself.

“You absolutely will not. We'll make it work. Jesus Christ, don't looks so scared! Bit awkward, sure, but really, you don't need to look like...that. It's not that big a deal, I was just having you on.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes glued to the floor, and hates that he knows his face must be flushing ridiculously red by now.

“It's...I've never…”

“Shared a bed?” John finishes for him.

“S’ok. Really. We can just make it, well, one of your ‘lessons', yeah? ‘A Study in Bedsharing,’” and John loses his composure all over again.

He looks up and attempts to smile at the joke, but must have missed the mark entirely because John schools himself and tries again.

“Listen, Sherlock, it really is fine. No lessons, ok? Only sleeping. Just... try not to steal all the blankets, yeah? And keep your freezing toes to your bloody self.”

**********************

He is jolted out of sleep by something hitting him, hard, in the shoulder.

Not quite awake and slightly panicked, he flips over and immediately backs as far to his side of the bed as possible, narrowly missing a direct hit in the face by one of John's arms flailing violently.

Fully alert now, he watches helplessly as John's body jerks and thrashes wildly in his sleep.

Nightmares. He knew John had them, but had never been in a position to watch one unfold.

It's honestly a bit terrifying, and that's on his end; he can't imagine what's happening in John's mind to cause him such distress.

His sandy hair is matted with sweat,  legs kicking at nothing, before becoming entangled in the sheets, his body physically panicking further at being trapped.

An arm shoots out in his direction again, and he lets it hit him in the chest before catching it and wrapping his hand tightly but gently around John's wrist. Holding it against himself as he scoots closer to his still sleeping bedmate. Closer. Until his chest is touching John's side. Who rolls onto his side, jerking away frantically.

Unsure exactly what to do, as you should never wake someone in the throes of a night terror, he does the only thing he can think of. Hooking one leg around both of John's, and still holding one of John's arms, he draws him slowly but firmly back against himself. His front to John's back, wrapping as much of himself around his shorter friend as he can, like a kind of human swaddling blanket. John struggles against him for several moments before whimpering (a sound that is so un-John it makes his chest ache) and going pliant. Still sweating and shivering, but not fighting him anymore.

His head is resting on John 's shoulder, face buried in John’s neck, and one of his hands finds its way into John's damp hair. Threading through it and oh so lightly grazing his scalp repetitively until John's ragged breathing begins to even out.

Even with the lessons, the hugging, this is as close as they have ever been and it’s more than a bit overwhelming having all of himself wrapped around all of John. He can feel John's pulse against his cheek, slowing to something closer to normal.

He should let go now. Really he should, but the rhythm of John's heartbeat and the gentle sound of his now normal breathing are hypnotic, and against his will, he is lulled into sleep still sheltering John's body with his own.

**************

He wakes slowly to a slight movement against him, the tickle of hair in his face. Forgetting for a brief sleep dulled moment just where he is.

_ John! _

He is still very much wrapped around his friend, in a tangle of bodies and limbs. His face in John’s hair, arms draped around his chest, and both their legs entangled beneath the duvet.  It is a very awkward and intimate proximity and as John will most likely have no memory of the events resulting in this...well...that’s just a bit not good. It could compromise the whole plan if John takes this the wrong way.

As carefully as he can, he begins to extract himself from his sleeping flatmate. It isn’t quite morning yet, if he can just get back to his side of the bed before….

John fidgets again, snuggling  _ closer _ , before going completely stiff.

Sherlock freezes too, breath held, waiting for the penny to drop.

When John’s sleep-husky voice breaks the silence, it is confused, but not angry.

“Sherlock? You awake?”

He tries to keep the panic from his voice as he answers, ridiculously close to John’s ear.

“Yes, John...this isn’t...I mean…”

“Did I hurt you?”

“What?”

“It was a nightmare, Sherlock, hmm? Must’ve been. Did I hurt you?” John sounds embarrassed, but mainly concerned.

“Yes...and no, I managed to evade most of it.”

“And you...wrapped yourself around me to keep me still?”

No point in lying.

“No, I...I did it to calm you down. You relaxed within a few moments.”

There is an uncomfortable pause, and once again, Sherlock, tries to extract himself from the situation. Until one of John’s hands splays out over the one still on his chest. Holding it still.

“Don’t,” John finally replies softly. “Stay?”

“John?”

“No one...No one has ever….stayed with me...in the bed....when  _ that  _ has happened.”

“I couldnt...didnt know any other way to stop it...to help you...I…”

“It’s fine...Sherlock....It’s good. Stay till morning?”

“Of course, John,” he whispers, shifting slightly to resume the position he began in.

Johns warmth pressing back against him, his arms around his shoulder and chest, and their legs...still wrapped up together below the blankets.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” comes the soft response in the dark room, and not another word is said as John drifts back to sleep and Sherlock just lies awake watching the rise and fall of his breathing. 


	7. Emotional Context, or, A Study in Bullet Wounds and Sentiment

He whirls around at the sound of the gun cocking, the barrel aimed directly at Sherlock's sternum. Sherlock freezes - and John's brain automatically clicks into survival mode by instinct. 

Another second and it would have been too late. John knows the logistics. Once that trigger is pulled nothing can move fast enough to impede a bullet's path...so he calculates.  

The man's brief hesitation only gives the most minute opportunity, and he takes it, launching his body in a rugby tackle at Sherlock's waist a fraction of a second before the shot fires. His full weight crashing into his friend, taking Sherlock down with him, the bullet nicking John in the side before they hit the floor. The force of John's impact rolls them once, slamming his head onto the concrete where they land. His brain registers the weight of Sherlock on top of him and the searing pain near his ribs before the world goes hazy.

There was shouting...his name? Sherlock's voice. Panicked. There was grappling at his waist and a weight lifted from his chest. More shouting and another gun cocking, this time above him and with no pause, before the impending shot is fired. The sound of someone's scream.

He is being shifted, gently. There is a hand on his face, then his jacket being pushed aside and a heavy pressure against the burning pain in his side as he struggles to pull the world back into focus.

He is lying, his head resting on Sherlock's legs. He can make out the feel of one of Sherlock's hands pressed firmly into his ribcage; the other he sees above him, still holding his gun aimed at the man writhing on the ground a few feet away.

Sherlock's voice, slightly cracked and unusually higher than normal, calling his name.

“John? JOHN?!”

As the room comes back into focus he finds wild, pale eyes staring down at him with a kind of fear he has never seen in them before. Sherlock's trembling hand setting down the gun and moving back to his face...a thumb stroking over his cheek.

That's when John sees it. It's written all over him. It's in his touch, in the tremble and timbre of his voice, in his eyes. A glimpse at the full capacity of the heart behind the genius. His normal mask of indifference dropped to reveal raw emotion, openly on display for the briefest of moments. John wonders how he's not noticed it for what it is before now. It only took a bullet and a literal thunk on the head for him to recognize it. All that normally well hidden sentiment, and all of it directed solely at him. For him.

He struggles and finds his voice.

“M’fine...Sherlock!..S’a graze,” he gets out and attempts to raise his head; the world tilts, “Concussion,” he mumbles, and squeezes his eyes shut to stop the vertigo.

Sherlock’s thumb grazes his cheek once more before he moves, gently sliding his head onto the floor.

Sirens are wailing outside.

When he opens his eyes again, tilting his head to the side, Sherlock is bent over the other man, who is clutching at his arm, with the muzzle of John's gun pressed firmly to his temple.

His flatmate’s voice is a deadly growl.

“Do. Not. Move. Do not so much as think.” There is a loud grunt and the sound of the impact of Sherlock's shoe into the culprits abdomen. “You shot him...John...you are lucky he is alive, or the wall behind you would currently be decorated with the contents of your skull.” 


	8. The Final Lesson, or, You Teach Me and I'll Teach You

As he hands John his tea, that momentary brush of fingers is a reminder of how much he nearly lost by being careless. That can’t happen again. Too many times now, John has put himself in danger because of his own reckless nature.

“You almost died,” he states bluntly, when John looks up to thank him.

“I didn’t, really; a concussion and a bullet graze...I’ve had worse,” John replies, pausing to blow the steam from his mug.

“You got lucky. Had you moved just an instant later that bullet wound would not be superficial.”

“Had I moved a moment later I wouldn't have been the one dead. I calculated, I knew what I was doing, and I knew what would happen if I got it wrong. Wasn’t about to stand there and watch you take a gunshot to the chest...You’d have bled out before I could do a thing, and I…” he stops himself and looks away, then changes the subject.

“Anyways, what about your lessons, got a bit behind on that now. Have you spoken to your...friend yet? Got any other things you need me to help you with there?”

He stays quiet, watching John. His best friend, willing participant in an experiment he doesn't know the nature of.

Willing to not only kill for him, but willing to die for him. It isn’t fair. Even he can see this isn’t right. Not what friends do. This needs to end. As much as he craves every second of John’s attention, his touches under the pretense of teaching him, he can’t chance losing what he already has. If John finds out he was testing him, it would definitely rank beyond ‘not good’.

John cares for him, John lives with him, and that will just have to be enough. For a brief moment before the shooting, back in a small bed in the dark, he dared hope, for a moment, that he was right, but it had just stayed what it was, and now he knows, he needs to stop it before he ruins everything.

\-------------------------

“No...” Sherlock answers quietly, moving to his chair.

“Why not?”

“I am fairly certain that he does not return the sentiment.”

“Have you made it clear that you actually are truly interested in...more than a friendship?” John presses, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels.

“It’s...not going to happen, John. You won’t have to put up with trying to teach me anything anymore,” the last bit sounds a bit lost but quite final. Resigned.

John sighs. He knows. He is no genius detective, but he is fairly certain…

That look in the warehouse, as he lay in Sherlock’s lap...you can’t fake that look, even if you are as good at manipulating people as Sherlock is.  

Then there was the night before. What should have been awkward as hell, was...good. To have someone look after him like that, to care enough. The warmth of his best mate wrapped around him like a blanket should have been all kinds of wrong, but it wasn’t. It was more right than he could imagine.

_I asked him to stay. I meant it._

Though nothing else had come of it when morning came.

Oddly, the man who doesn’t do relationships has all along been showing himself to be quite good at it. The warehouse, the nightmare...that time in the kitchen when Harry overdosed How the man who is in constant motion stills and falls asleep having his hair petted.

_How he spent 45 minutes staring at our hands on the sofa._

He is quite sure he is right, and that’s not even the true twist in this whole thing. It’s that now he knows...why he was willing to play along, why not one bit of it felt wrong or was too much. Something finally clicked in all of this ridiculousnesss - he has undoubtedly fallen for Sherlock, maybe he had ages ago and couldn’t see it for what it was, but he sees it now. They work. They fit together, as friends, as work partners, as flatmates, and, as...something more.

Sherlock somehow hadn't picked up on this change. He wants it, but he doesn't think John does. He is cutting it off to avoid hurt...or conflict….or…

_He is afraid. Afraid I’d find out and be angry. Afraid I don't feel the same....or, like with the bullet...afraid to lose me._

Sherlock is lost in his own thoughts as John makes up his mind. He still has something he needs Sherlock to learn, but he is shit with words.

_In for a penny, in for a pound. Time for one final lesson..._

*****************

He hadn't even noticed John moving until their socked feet are touching, John standing over him. Smiling but looking a bit...nervous?

“You could be wrong, you know,” he says softly.

“I am rarely wrong Joh…”

“Stand up, Sherlock.” John's eyes never leave his as he offers a hand.

He takes it and allows John to pull him up.

“I told you, John, there isn't anything else you need to….”

“Shut up...there is. There is one more thing you should know...you need to know...before you...give up on anything _more_ with your ‘friend’”.

“Fine. John. Tell me. What else do I need to _learn_?”

“I could show you, yeah?” John says,softly, with the hint of a question in his voice. 

“It's not necessary for ...”

Whatever words he meant to say never make it out, eyes widening as John steps further into his space, a hand sliding around his neck.

“One final lesson, Sherlock."

“I t-told you, John…” he stammers, “You don't have to…”

“Don't have to... _want_ to…” John whispers into the closing space between them. 

And then John's lips are pressing softly into his, shutting down all rational thought.  

The hand on his neck tightens, pulling him closer, and on instinct he circles both his arms around John's waist.

John’s hand finds its way into his hair, twisting into his curls, tugging softly as he angles their mouths just slightly to press more insistently against his lips.

He lets out a tiny gasp as the tip of John’s tongue teases the corner of his mouth until he parts his own lips to allow it inside.

He allows his own to tentatively explore, quick little flicks and touches, until they find each other, tangling, twisting, wrestling.

A small whimper he would like to deny making escaping him as John’s hand twists harder in his hair, his own hands moving, one to splay across John’s back, one to mimic-fingers grasping at short silver-blonde strands. Their bodies pressed solidly together. The kiss becomes softer, slower, until it is small licks and nips, before John breaks it completely, pulling back to look at him.

And he smiles. In a way Sherlock has never seen on him before. It is like the sun.

John is the sun, and he is just a planet, orbiting…

_Maybe I didn't delete that after all…._

He knows he is smiling back, and that it must be big and soppy and ridiculous, because John laughs and pulls him close.

He can’t help but to laugh as well.

“Was that my last lesson, John?” he pants against John’s cheek.

“God, I hope not!” John brushes their lips together once more. “Just needed you to see….”

“See what?” Sherlock breathes against them.

“That your ‘friend’ already loved you, too, idiot.”

He goes still in John’s arms, before pulling back a bit and whispering, “You knew?”

“Not the whole time, but I figured it out…”

“Was I really that obvious?”

“No...I just...I realized I wasn’t really teaching you...you were teaching me.”

“But you were, John; what could I possibly have taught you?”

“To open my eyes, Sherlock. To not just see, but observe, like you always tell me, yeah?”

“What did you observe, then?” his eyes searching John’s.

He shivers as a hand brushes an errant curl from his face.

“You...me...this…” John’s hand on his neck, pulling him back down into another soft kiss.

This time Sherlock breaks it, resting his head on John’s, nuzzling into his hair.

“I do, too ...you know.”

“Hmm?”

“That thing, you said, I do...too...as well... Love you.”

“Good thing, that. Would have been a waste teaching you how to date your flatmate if you didn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely EnglandWouldFallJohn


End file.
